


Made

by seven (sevenpoints)



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpoints/pseuds/seven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grey didn't grow up. </p><p>Grey was made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stop thinking about Grey. This is just one way I imagine his life playing out on the train.
> 
> I feel like I should warn that the ships are all...well, not quite unrequited, but certainly unsatisfying.

Grey didn't grow up. 

Grey was made. 

He knew that he was different. The fact that he was mute was the least of it. He watched Edgar from where he rested at Gilliam's side and he knew, he knew he was different. Sure, Edgar followed Curtis around with blind devotion, but Edgar _chose_. When Grey followed Gilliam, when he sat at his feet, when he guarded his sleep, he knew he'd never had a choice.

Edgar asked about his mother, sometimes. Said he remembered her face. Sometimes one of the other adults would share a memory about her, but there weren't many. She hadn't lasted long on the train.

No one remembered Grey's parents. It was like he'd never had any, like he'd dropped down from the ceiling one day, born from the train itself. He'd pointed at parents on the train and turned to Gilliam, a question in his eyes.

"I take care of you," Gilliam answered. 

He burrowed into Gilliam's warmth but he knew. Not the same. Not the same. 

He was encouraged to climb often, while other children chased the ball, Edgar among them, fighting, laughing, making friends and enemies. Grey watched, then blinked when Curtis snapped his fingers in his face, drawing him back to their drills with pull-ups, with body bends, movements that made it easier to climb faster, stay up longer. While Tammy told Edgar stories and he started to make up his own, Grey learned anatomy, watching with wide eyes while Gilliam told him the places that hurt and the places that bled. A grimacing Edgar helped with bathing squalling babies while Grey ran a damp rag over Gilliam's bony back and gently scrubbed the mottled scars of his stumps, and later listened when Curtis explained them in a broken whisper. He learned that he was strong and Gilliam was weak, that he was ignorant and Gilliam was wise, that the train was cruel and brutal and indifferent while Gilliam was benevolent, Gilliam was patient, and Gilliam needed him.

Grey learned his lessons, and came to understand them better than even Gilliam could guess. He felt his own loneliness which couldn't be answered by Edgar's impatience or Curtis' guilt, but which found solace in Gilliam's words. He saw the way that train parents doted on their children, protecting them, indulging them, but never seemed to see him the same way. Children were children and Grey was Grey. 

Children ran crying to the adults with cuts and scrapes and Grey chewed on rags while Gilliam dug needles into his skin. First it was words to let him communicate, but then it was phrases, from books he hasn't read, in languages he heard but didn't understand. They spread across him in places he couldn't even see. After a while, he didn't feel the pain anymore, and he knew that was the whole point. 

The first time he woke up wet with a lingering shadow of pleasure in his groin he'd gone to Gilliam, confused and strangely ashamed. There was another lesson, shared with Edgar for once, where they learned that growing up meant more than just growing tall.

Grey knew that he looked at Curtis' shape and lips and his sad eyes and wanted him. He knew that people looked at his own shape and lips and sad eyes and wanted him. He understood why Curtis kept that part of himself clenched and hidden. He understood why people looked at him, his bare belly, the long line of his back, but no hand ever reached out. 

He knew that Edgar wanted Curtis. Edgar knew Grey wanted Curtis. They both knew that Curtis wanted Grey, and that they were all poor bastards because that wasn't a situation that spelled satisfaction for anyone. Curtis kept Edgar at arm's length and pushed Grey even further, to Gilliam's side. When it came time to learn to fight he set Edgar and Grey to sparring with each other rather than touch them himself, demonstrating the moves with another adult then having them copy him, drilling them, again and again until the repetition was mindless, and that was when Grey's instincts took over. He found the time between one beat and the next and slipped through it, under Edgar's guard, landing strikes that no one saw coming. After that, Curtis had to be the one to train with Grey while Edgar seethed, jealous of every bruise that spread across Grey's bare skin.

He expected it when Edgar came to him while the train slept. He wasn't surprised to be pushed into Edgar's bunk, with Curtis right above them. He pressed Edgar's cock between his thighs and let him rut there, grinding his own cock against Edgar's thin belly. Edgar gripped his hips and shoulders, hard, leaving unmistakable bruises that would show beyond the edges of Grey's coat and taunt Curtis when he stripped it off to train. They fucked as quietly as they could, not for any desire for secrecy but so they could hear Curtis, barely a foot away, breathing shallowly, his elbow jutting out over the edge of his bunk from where he had his hands pressed over his ears. 

The next day he was sent out of Gilliam's tent after Curtis approached and he wasn't surprised when he saw less of Edgar after that. There were no more shared lessons and there was more time with Gilliam. Gilliam, who never touched him but who told him things about his body, other's bodies, things that left Grey hard and wet inside his pants. He saw that Curtis let Edgar closer, pressing against his side when they sat, and wondered if Edgar knew the things that he knew. Wondered if Curtis knew from experience, or if Gilliam had whispered to him too. Desire coiled inside him, leaving him aching, and when he took himself in hand it was Curtis' body and Gilliam's words that filled his mind. 

He didn't know how old he was. It didn't matter. It was one of the many things he and Curtis knew and didn't discuss: that the number of years didn't matter, that one was too much, that they were running in circles but could never go back. That maybe, probably, they'd already gone too far. 

He knew that he was tall and small at the same time. That they'd hoped he'd be smaller, sneakier, but he could still fold himself into small spaces and he rarely needed a boost to reach the ceiling. It was good he was a little darker because it helped him blend in with the train. It was good that his hair was dull and didn't shine. It was bad that sweat made his skin gleam but it couldn't be helped and besides, he was beautiful. They liked to see him, even though they wouldn't touch him. 

Grey knew he was different, and that being different was hard. He could walk down the length of the tail and not a single coat would brush against his bare arms. Curtis would knock him to the floor in training but never help him back up. When they were finished he could only limp to Gilliam's tent to be doctored and clucked over. Gilliam praised him when his throwing knives found their marks. Gilliam murmured jokes to him when Edgar finally seemed to forget him entirely. Gilliam's whispers came for him at night. 

Grey did not grow up. 

Grey was made.


End file.
